Never have I ever woken up more wired than to that 8am alarm on a Saturday morning. In kit just a few minutes later, I’m facing the prospect of the mighty Thame 2s (away). Headphones on, grab the bike and I’m down at Iffley picking up my goalkeeping kit. On the way, the illuminating red-light of the Tesco sign speaks to me, beckoning me in for a breakfast meal deal. With a main-sized portion of mango and a tiny almond croissant in my bag, I hit the road once more to lug the mountain of protective foam over to the high street.
Typically, we either take rental cars or cars owned by teammates to away fixtures (the furthest ones are up to an hour from Oxford), but the X20 bus awaits us for a more local fixture than usual. With one car sent ahead with our hockey balls, and protective masks, the rest of the squad neatly file in, and up the stairs to spread ourselves out of the series of seats at the back. Thankfully, with no one upstairs with us, we can get the speaker out and get into the mood for it.
A win would see us go 4th (out of 12) from 9th, and today’s opposition were promoted into our league from the one below last year. Finally getting to the venue, we somehow have made it earlier than our oppo, so we assert some serious authority and start warming up in their absence. Gates are opened and closed with military efficiency, and enough chickens have been shooed to restart the KFC on Cornmarket Street, so they don’t resort to rats anymore.
They finally turn up, and it’s the usual mix of 14 and 40 year olds that you find in this league. Older blokes who are out of their prime now, and can’t hack the pace at the top level, and younger players that make you question whether you really enjoy playing this sport as they continually rinse you over and over again. The game comes and goes, and is all in all pretty even. Both teams have some very good chances, but great last-minute defending from Oxford means both teams walk out with a point each at 0-0 (we’re gonna ruin them in the home leg, trust). Filing into the showers after the game, the chatter continues as we debrief post-game, and get changed into the customary ‘ones,’ shirt and tie, with smart trousers and shoes. Apparently, other team’s clubhouses used to have dress codes, and so being as smart as possible guarantees we won’t get turned away anywhere (and I suppose it just stuck).
Some of said chatter includes newly-created fantasy hockey chat. With one of our teammates having spent some time coding over the summer, he’s managed to replicate fantasy football (commonly known as FPL), and so debate ensues about how many points each player will have accrued over the course of the day. Stupidly, I transfer myself out the night before the game, and immediately get our first clean sheet of the season, which would have provided some seriously nice points. Oh well. Teas provided by the oppo round off the day while we nominate ‘Man of the Match’ and ‘Dick of the Day,’ the former going to Stan Doel for some excellent work at the back, and Ben Cole runs away with the latter for [REDACTED].
We trudge back onto the X20 home, and return mildly disappointed in our inability to come away with the win, but spirits still high with Vinnie’s on the cards for the night. Traditionally a members-only club, the Vincent’s Club (or Vinnie’s/Vin’s) is a club wide hangout spot for hockey on Saturday nights, where players from various teams unwind and catch up on the days events over a few Pinkies and some games that have been passed down since well before you or I were born. Mid-Vin’s trip, I stop to log the game’s result on the online database, just to realise I forgot to upload the team sheet the night before the game (oops) and so sneakily log it before the league notices (oops again) and we potentially get fined (sorry FJ) – at the time of writing I don’t think we did so I may be in the clear…
Between getting home and going to Vin’s, I contemplate doing some work for the essay due on Monday at noon, and haven’t started. Having decided that sporting mediocrity will always triumph over academic success, I quickly bin that off and pore over the events of the game, and what to work on in training in the upcoming week, provided a decent number from the squad turn up for once. Invariably, they won’t, but what can I do if not try.
After stumbling all the way back home to Summertown, it’s finally time to get some rest after a busy day, and I slowly cry myself to sleep as a result of leaving two points on the table (just love the game so much). At approximately 3am, I give up on sleeping and start scheming for the next week’s game away at Marlow, cooking up tactics that Pep Guardiola would call crazy but Sean Dyche may describe as ‘sound’. I’m telling all the boys that injured players can’t defend and certainly can’t score.
If you want to see some of the finest hockey known to grace the Fletcher Field astro at Iffley, come down on Sunday at 2pm to see us take on Marlow 5s, and get the full experience.
